It’s been protested time and time again that Uncle Tupelo
weren’t harbingers of any scene or movement—though that is
how history seems to remember them. So that’s an argument
I won’t take up here, except to say that, remembering Uncle
Tupelo as part of any “scene” is denying what a unique and
thorny band they actually were. The group’s true roots lay
in the DIY mentality of the ’80s, and their immediate forbears
and brethren were the indie bands who rolled through the Southeast
and Midwest in battered Econoline vans throughout that decade.
It’s no small coincidence they recorded a song called “D.
Boon,” in memory of the late Minuteman leader; he was a friend
and an ally. It’s hard to imagine the Uncle Tupelo of 1990
giving the time of day to talented, precocious twerp-from-hell
Ryan Adams, the alt- country poster boy who would swim in
their wake.

The Tupelo boys had the souls of ancient Ozark or Appalachian
miners or preachers . . . or criminals. Theirs was a vernacular
and spirit of old America, yet they were really just the work-boot-and-cigarette
guys the jocks threw food at in the lunchroom. And while country
music was certainly an influence, it could be argued that
old folk music and hardcore riffs exerted a greater pull on
the group’s early muse.

It can be a discomforting task looking down the barrel of
your own music- listening past; you always wonder if the stuff
you lived for “back then” will sound as good—or if memory
has simply shrouded it in glory. This set of reissues (of
the unforgivably out-of-print first three albums) quells those
anxieties. The group’s debut, No Depression, still
has all the visceral impact of yesterday: all the simmering,
stormy sentiment; the gut-crunching guitar fury; and Jay Farrar’s
ancient, craggy voice (rising out of a skinny kid with his
bangs in his eyes). On “Before I Break,” the group want to
put their arm around you and breathe the rye-sodden tale in
your ear, but the guitars sound like they want to . . . hurt
you. The title track, the old Carter Family nugget, a rather
straightforward acoustic reading, is actually one of the least
remarkable tracks here.

No
Depression and Still Feel Gone were the group’s
loudest, most furious albums, with the former more brutal
and primitive than the latter. Still Feel Gone still
has balls, but it also has more nuance. With the opener, “Gun,”
Jeff Tweedy—no more simply the able sidekick—initiated a long
and talented career trajectory, a trajectory that would culminate
in three excellent albums with Wilco (and one album, Yankee
Hotel Foxtrot, that sagged under the post-rock peer pressure
of his hip new friends in Chicago). The Jeff Tweedy who bursts
from the speakers on “Gun” is the young and scrappy little
brother who has caught up in a gleeful way. It’s one of Uncle
Tupelo’s finest moments, from the ominous rumble that opens
the track to the rough-and- tumble guitars to Tweedy’s joyful
sackcloth rasp (“My heart, it was a gun/But it’s unloaded
now . . . so don’t bother!”), which had yet to mellow into
the milk-and-whiskey sound of his 30s.

The bright, chiming “Still Be Around” showed a more philosophical
side to Farrar. It was the 12-step sequel to No Depression’s“Whiskey Bottle” (“Whiskey Bottle over Jesus/Not forever,
just for now”). The clouds hadn’t fully lifted, but at least
there was the possibility. But with “Punch Drunk,” Farrar
was once again pummeling the listener with bruised blue-collar
anguish and industrial-sized riffs as drummer Mike Heidorn,
an unsung hero of early Tupelo, unloaded salvos. “Postcard”
and “D. Boon” were simply brutal, pretty and loud. (Listening,
it’s easy to remember exactly how loud and powerful these
guys were live. They left a scar on my psyche—and tympanic
membrane—matched only by wounds from My Bloody Valentine,
Nirvana and AC/DC.)

The group’s next album, March 16-20, 1992, is their
peak moment. Produced by R.E.M.’s Peter Buck (at his house
in Athens, Ga.), it captures a live-on-the-back-porch vibe
that countless rootsy acts would try to emulate in subsequent
years. Here, Uncle Tupelo completely surrendered to their
acoustic side, matching traditionals and nuggets culled from
old folk anthologies seamlessly with their own tunes. This
is a gritty, burnished world of worker anthems, atomic-power
fear and bar fights. By now it was push-and-pull between Tweedy
and Farrar: Each in the spotlight and each constantly one-upping
the other, like sparring partners. For their next album, the
widely available Anodyne, the group would move to a
major label, and Heidorn (later to resurface in Son Volt with
Farrar) would turn his attention to wife, baby and 9-to-5,
ushering in a bunch of players who would eventually team up
with Tweedy in Wilco—after Farrar, in his enigmatic fashion,
just up and walked away.

The real treat here is that these albums are back in print
and sound great in remastered form, and the bonus tracks don’t
really add any missing pieces to the Uncle Tupelo puzzle.
This has been a long time coming; it’s good to still feel
gone.

—Erik
Hage

Owl
& the PussycatOwl & the Pussycat
 (Kill Rock Stars)

Two nouns, an article and an ampersand: What we’ve got here
is a new vintage duo. Northwest-based Owl is Lois Maffeo,
who’s previously recorded five albums under her own name.
Pussycat is from the Bay area, where he answers to the name
Greg Moore and plays with a sibling in the accurately labeled
outfit the Moore Brothers.

Owl
& the Pussycat’s 13 songs are finely rendered miniatures,
quietly sturdy, but arranged with sensibilities at once wise
and fanciful. The tunes are built primarily around acoustic
guitars, bolstered by the additional use of occasional piano
and even flute (fear not all ye flute weary, it’s judiciously
utilized and calls no attention to itself). The crowning flourishes
throughout are the background and chorus vocals, which lift
out of the surrounding quiet with surprise and delight, in
often contrasting timbers and registers. Maffeo and Moore
both write with personally idiosyncratic sensibilities—musical
and lyrical—that draw more on pop, cabaret and soundtracks
than folk music. There’s even an inherent pulsing to this
percussion-free album, drawing on the rhythms of radio—rather
than coffeehouse—fare. Owl & the Pussycat here offer up
their whispered hit parade.

—David
Greenberger

Tom
RossThe Rain Takes Off Her Clothes
 (Mizazi)

Singer-guitarist-composer
Tom Ross refers to his body of work as “global jazz songs,”
an apt moniker for music that’s based in a variety of Indian
raga and dance styles, but that also manages to include melodic
and rhythmic patterns culled from such diverse personal inspirations
as Ray Charles, Little Feat, hand jive, “Hey Joe” and even
Albany’s own Bryan Thomas (per Ross’ liner notes). This eclectic,
fascinating musical concoction is brought to life on The
Rain Takes Off Her Clothes in an elegant western jazz
setting, with Ross’ guitars swirling above and around Charlie
Keagle’s sax and flute, Josh Zucker’s bass and Mike Migliozzi’s
drums and percussion. The overall instrumental effect is lovely,
inviting and sensual, and provides an excellent framework
within which Ross’ emotive vocals (with support from singer
Carin Gado) and literate lyrics can jump, dance, frolic, gambol,
insinuate and insist in all variety of meters of rhythms—only
once, though, in the 4/4 time that most toe-tappers easily
recognize. Which isn’t, of course, to say that The Rain
Takes Off Her Clothes isn’t filled with toe-tapping music,
since one of Ross’ greatest strengths is his ability to make
odd (to Western ears) rhythms swing like nobody’s business;
you may not be familiar with the five-beat Indian tala
khanda eka, but it’ll move you grandly nonetheless, and
that’s the ultimate testimony to this power of this innovative,
excellent album.